


the man has that jazz

by shortitude



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Although They're Very Serious About Each Other, And So Can Coulson, Canon Point Not Specified, Daisy Can SO FLIRT, Elena Cameo Because We All LOVE Her, F/M, First Kiss, Hangover, Inhuman Drinking Shenanigans, Not a Serious Fic, They've Been Doing This For Four Seasons, Who Cares??, and then they insisted on being dorks instead, cousyfest2k17, i wanted to write them a tender soft ballad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-12 07:36:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10485651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shortitude/pseuds/shortitude
Summary: Daisy flirts (poorly) with Coulson, drinks with Yo-Yo, and at one point goes back for a second round of Charm School.(Prompt: "Right where I belong".)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BrilliantlyHorrid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrilliantlyHorrid/gifts), [zauberer_sirin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zauberer_sirin/gifts).



> Okay so maybe it doesn't include the prompt _verbatim_ , but come on: where does Daisy belong if not in Coulson's bed? (Aside from out there, saving the world, I mean.)

1.

They don’t give Coulson an office now that he’s no longer the Director of SHIELD, and that’s one of the first things she notices once she’s back on the base. 

First night in, she heads out of her unfamiliar bunk, gravitating towards the better-known places, and she finds herself in the garage, where Coulson is bent over at a desk, doing paperwork. Likely related to her return from the shadows, or whatever the Director is calling it. 

“Where’s your office?” she blurts out, because it’s late and she’s tired, and he looks just as tired over there, squinting at the screen. 

Coulson’s head snaps up and he catches her, and throws her a little smile that still throws her off balance for a second, even six months later. “No office for ex-directors,” he explains. 

“That seems unfair. What is it, one of the Director’s good ole _optics_ strategy?” she drawls, making sure to air-quote the shit out of that word: optics. Pft. Like taking care of one’s image to the public is all that matters. 

“You know he’s not that bad,” he murmurs, trying to put out a fire before it starts. “And my first choice not being present…”

She shuffles her feet on the spot, awkwardly, for a second. That one still hasn’t sunken in yet. That he wanted her to be Director, after stepping down; _her_ , of all the people. Well, she would’ve definitely given him an office, that’s for sure; and told the optics team to go screw themselves, probably, too. (Which further proves that Coulson is wrong, and possibly biased.)

(But so is she.)

“I didn’t mean - sorry, Daisy, I didn’t mean it as an accusation,” he rushes to add, and she stops him by raising her hand in the universal gesture. He snaps his mouth shut. 

“I know.” A pause, as she looks around the garage, the familiarity of it, the familiarity of _them_. “I suddenly missed your office,” she confesses, sighing. “With all the nerdy collectibles, and the really good records.”

“Oh,” Coulson says, and she blushes a bit under his stare, but the light in the garage doesn’t do much, probably. “I still have them. But...in my bunk.” 

She can’t help it, she can’t: she shouldn’t, but her eyebrow comes _up_ , her smirk gets _on_ , and she even cocks a hip, confident. “Why, AC, are you inviting me to your bunk?”

In the sudden silence that befalls the garage, you could hear a pin drop. She feels her pulse skyrocket, and her confidence falter, and she’s this close to saying something like _for fuck’s sake, Phil, say something witty_ , when he opens his mouth.

“Well. There _would_ be jazz.” 

The security alert chooses to blast through the entire base at that exact moment, and Daisy has never been happier to be told she can’t go to bed tonight either. 

2\. 

The only person she seems to be able to have drinks post-mission with nowadays is Yo-Yo, for obvious reasons. They relate to each other in ways nobody on the base does, or _can_ , and because of this Daisy feels comfortable opening up to the woman. 

“Are you avoiding Coulson?”

Except when she’s nosy. 

“What? Me? I’m not avoiding anyone, I’m completely open and available for anyone who needs me.”

Five beers in, Daisy is not exactly the epitome of a pokerface. She’s not the epitome of a poker-anything. And Yo-Yo can tell, judging from the pointed look she gives Daisy. 

Obviously, the most logical course of action is to accept that the table is very attractive, and just… _lay her head down on it_ , and hope for swift death. Death never comes. Daisy groans. 

“Okay, a little bit, maybe. Yes. Something happened, but also didn’t.” 

“You finally kissed him.” 

“Shh - _shhhhhh_ , I don’t think they heard you in _Bogotá_ ,” she hisses.

Yo-Yo takes a sip of her beer, unfazed. “So did you?”

“No.” She sounds disappointed.

“You sound disappointed. I would be, too, he looks like he would know what to do -- ”

“ _Why_?”

“-- not that mack doesn’t keep up well.”

“Yes, please. Let’s talk about _your_ sex life instead.”

“I never mentioned sex with Coulson, Daisy, that was all you.”

3.

Since he doesn’t have his own office, the chances of running into him on the base are higher, if she doesn’t know where she might find him. But she _wants_ to find him this time, that’s the thing, so she (very drunkenly) finds his bunk. 

Coulson opens the door and she has to clamp her hand over her mouth to not let out a laugh. He look affronted, so she quickly waves it off and says: “No, no, they make you look distinguished.”

He sighs, and takes off his reading glasses, “Thanks. Glad to know I’m at the distinguished age.”

“And super hot,” she adds. 

“You say that to all the grandpas.” 

“Shut up, you’re not a grandpa,” she snaps, and then they both share a soft laugh because of nothing. It occurs to her that they might be nervous. She’s not here for any mission, he’s not wearing his suit again, and the glasses really _do_ look hot on him. Daisy clears her throat, and remembers all of Yo-Yo’s peptalk fifteen minutes ago.

( _”Just go and get your smooch on.”_

_“What if he doesn’t want me?”_

_“Look at yourself, chica, you’re a knockout. Coulson is not dumb.”_

_“Thanks, Yo-Yo. You know, if it doesn’t work out, I’ll just find you.”_

_“Mack’s not the sharing kind.”_

_“I mean I can’t blame him.”_

_“Go!”_ )

Right, so: as the knockout Colombian woman said: _go, Daisy, go_. 

She leans against the doorway. “So, I heard there might even be jazz…”

4\. 

Death comes in the form of a massive hangover. She wakes up in unfamiliar surroundings, for a split second panicking that she’s woken up from a nice dream, where she was back with SHIELD, seeing Coulson every day, hanging out with Yo-Yo without looking over her shoulder, perhaps even mending bridges with some of the other teammates. But upon opening one eye, she finds that she’s not, in fact, still on the run. 

She’s in a bunk, but it’s not hers. 

She’s in someone’s bed, whose bed is she in? Oh god, _whose bed_ -

“Good morning,” says Coulson, stepping in through the door and closing it behind him. He looks unruffled, not disheveled, _not smooched_ , and is carrying a bottle of water with some pills. 

“Oh god, mortifying,” she groans, and shoves her face into his pillow. _His pillow_. “Did I come hit on you?” she asks, from exactly where she is. 

“Yes,” answers Coulson, proving that he can hear her in spite of the muffled words. 

She lifts her head. “Did I succeed?”

He smiles a little, looking very fucking handsome if she might add, and hands her the pills and the water. “Nothing happened. But you were very charming.” 

She downs the aspirins, and the rest of the water, and pulls herself to sit in the middle of his bed. Exhales. “You put me to sleep like a gentleman, didn’t you?” 

“I did, after playing Nat King Cole. Lady’s request.” 

She hums softly, and touches the bottle to her lips again, watching him. “It turns out I’m kind of awkward at hitting on you successfully.” 

He takes a seat on the bed next to her, and covers her hand, pulling the bottle down so he can run his hand over her cheek. “Daisy…” He has this _way_ of saying her name, and she thinks she knows what it means, but if he’d say it. “Are you sure?” That’s not what she wanted him to say, but okay. 

“I’m one hundred percent sure,” she says, nodding for emphasis. Her head hurts. “I’d kiss you right now, except I’m sure I have terrible morning breath after last night.” 

His hand finds the side of her neck, smoothly, and Daisy swears she must have a fever. “I’ll risk it,” he says, and pulls her in. It’s chaste, short, and absolutely beautiful. 

But she can taste the inside of her own mouth, so she knows he’s a fucking champ. “Wow. Now that’s love.” 

“Yes, well…” He gives her a sheepish smile, the kind where he ducks his head and looks up at her with those blue eyes, crinkles around the corners of them and all, like he’s been busted. And Daisy knew, but she didn’t _know_ know, you know? 

She smiles so widely her cheeks hurt. 

And then the security alarm blast through the entire base again. 

5\. 

“Okay,” she says, after knocking on his door again. “I finished all my paperwork,” she enummerates, counting on her fingers, “and I saved the world, and I didn’t get injured. _And_ , by the way, _not for any reason in particular_ , I brushed my teeth.” 

He pulls her into his room. 

“I’ve got some jazz you haven’t heard.”


End file.
